


Of Sea Witches and Merchildren - Of Tales and Blood

by Quecksilver_Eyes



Category: Den lille Havfrue | The Little Mermaid - Hans Christian Andersen, The Little Mermaid (1989), The Little Mermaid - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, also the character death is canonical, anyway have a self indulgent lil thing about the sea witch, au for the disney movie, bc i am STILL mad about what ppl do to this character, none of these people have NAMES, so guess who dies, twofold!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 13:12:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15340596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes
Summary: When she was just a hatchling, her fingers not yet in claws, her voice not yet a cackle, her blood translucent like a jellyfish, her mother carried her on her back and sang to her. It was a dreadful song, the merfolk say, their faces in sneers, their tails twitching, a song that sounded human, almost, until you listened to it and it didn’t anymore.(her mother sang to her of their people, and of the men who would come to find wives and would find only the water in their lungs, she sang of destiny and how to change it, like humanity changes its world.)





	Of Sea Witches and Merchildren - Of Tales and Blood

They call her twisted, they call her ugly, they call her human, they call her witch. The water on her skin cools and whispers to her of merchildren and their parents and the fear in their fins and in their voices. She curls herself around her snakes and coos at toads and refuses to tend to her garden.

The little princesses and their white hands, their clear voices, plant their destiny into the royal garden, they plant colour and dreams and love and the youngest plants flowers as red as the setting sun. The queen, her tail stained, her hair wild, offers the witch the world’s storms for a pair of legs and the witch laughs.

(what else is there she can do, the snakes’ sleek skin against her own, the toads croaking, the water chill and quiet around her.)

She brews a potion with her own blood. It stains her kettle and the queen smiles, as if she had just been handed the world. “It will hurt“, the witch says and the queen raises her head.

“I know“, she says and the witch splits her tail and rips off the scales, shapes it into legs in the blood red water, the taste of salt and metal in her mouth.

 

* * *

 

When she was just a hatchling, her fingers not yet in claws, her voice not yet a cackle, her blood translucent like a jellyfish, her mother carried her on her back and sang to her. It was a dreadful song, the merfolk say, their faces in sneers, their tails twitching, a song that sounded human, almost, until you listened to it and it didn’t anymore.

(her mother sang to her of their people, and of the men who would come to find wives and would find only the water in their lungs, she sang of destiny and how to change it, like humanity changes its world.)

“We are not merfolk“, her mother used to say, in her voice like rusty nails, “we are not human, either.“

“What are we, then?“, she’d ask, and stick her head out of the water to look at the stars.

Her mother laughed, and it sounded a little like a sinking ship. “Not yet“, she’d say and kiss her cheek. “You are a child, still.“

 

* * *

 

They wish for petty things. They wish for luck and flowing hair and a voice like the heavens, and all of them come to her, trembling and afraid, as if the bones she’d built her house of were any different than the ships they sink for their children.

The youngest princess wishes for legs, her little face like stone, her hands wound around her necklace. She looks like her mother, the same eyes, the same lines around her mouth. The witch laughs again and the little mermaid does not flinch.

What a beautiful, foolish hatchling.

“You will die“, she says, “it will hurt and you will bleed and he will not see you.” The mermaid shakes her head.

“I shall bear it“, she says and the witch can see her white skin blooming into sea foam, can see the tears she hasn’t yet shed, the blood that hasn’t yet stained the prince’s beaches.

She asks for the hatchling’s voice, this time, and the little thing obliges.

 

* * *

 

Her magic changes, again. She can feel it in her blood, can see it on her skin and in her potions. The humans have found new stories to tell. So when the six remaining princesses come to her, their weeping louder even than the king’s rage, she cannot offer them help that isn’t drenched in royal blood and sea foam.

She forges a dagger from her blood, the snakes around her hiss and writhe and the princesses cut off their hair. “She will not do it“, the witch warns them, but the princesses have already grabbed the blade, staining their fingers.

“She has to“, the eldest says, her scales a brilliant red even in the darkness of the witch’s shed. “She will.“

The witch says nothing.

 

* * *

 

When she was tall enough to reach for the skies without her mother’s strength below her and her fingers started to curl inwards, she asked again. And again, her mother didn’t answer.

“You are my child“, she said instead, her voice quiet against the raging sea. “You are like me.“

“I am no hatchling“, she’d say and she’d feel her face set into a sneer. Her mother laughed.

“You will know“, she said, her black blood oozing from her mouth. “When you are old enough, you will know.“

 

* * *

 

The sea witch watches as the hatchling stands aboard the ship, eyes red, fingers clutched around the dagger, her skin stained black. Below her, her sisters weep, and the storm grows louder with them.

(when she jumps, the sea stills and blooms and if witches could cry, she would have wept with the merfolk. instead, she picks up a flower and weaves it into her hair.)

When the prince and his bride come aboard, the world stands still. The prince’s bride picks up the dagger and the witch feels dry, somehow, despite the water whispering around her.

“What a beautiful blade“, the prince says and his voice is loud in the witch’s ears, “she must have left it as a gift.“

The bride looks at the water, blood red and blooming and smiles. “Do you suppose she went home, finally?“

Oh, thinks the witch, as she can feel her magic shift around her, her fingers uncurling.

 

 

> \- _“do not be afraid of change, my child, we are the stories in their rib cages, the hope in their fingers, we are the words on their lips”_


End file.
